


Three Times Dean Kissed Sam (And One Time Sam Kissed Him Back)

by astrangerfate, orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-03
Updated: 2008-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:32:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrangerfate/pseuds/astrangerfate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam always knew that Dean’s kisses could make it all better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Times Dean Kissed Sam (And One Time Sam Kissed Him Back)

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing, make no money, and mean no harm. All mistakes are mine.

_I_

_May 13, 1988_

“I don’t want you to go,” Sammy says in his smallest voice, exhausted after the temper tantrum he threw, huddled against the armchair and not looking at his father.

They go through this every time. “I’ve got work to do, buddy,” John says firmly. “You behave for your Uncle Bobby while I’m gone, and mind your brother.”

  
The kid doesn’t respond, staring at his hands and acting for all the world like he’s being abandoned, left in the South Dakota wasteland for the rest of his life. John sighs, hoists the duffel onto his shoulder and walks out the door.

Sammy raises his eyes to stare after him for a moment before the tears return, somewhat forced because he’s just finished crying himself out.

Now that his father is gone, Dean reappears and takes Sam’s arm, tugging him upright and steering him toward the porch. “Come on, Sammy, let’s go outside to play,” he urges.

They play Cowboys and Indians, because Dean chooses the game. Sammy’s the Indian, the way he always is, except the one time he complained and Dean let them switch. Sometimes they play Cops and Robbers, and Sam likes that better until Dean catches him.

He’s running in the bright sunlight, feeling the warmth of the dusty soil underneath his bare feet, laughing as he keeps a step ahead of his big brother. Then without warning he trips over something, a rock or a root or a stray piece of junk, and he’s flying through the air before he lands all too quick and hard and fast on the dry ground. His hands get the worst of it, the palms scraped and bleeding from where he tried to catch himself, but he’s thinking more of his knee, which somehow stings the most. He sobs, dry, shuddering shakes because he really doesn’t have any tears left this time, and Dean is at his side in an instant.

“What is it, Sammy?” he asks anxiously, green eyes searching his brother’s body for signs of injury.

“My…my….my knee!” Sam bawls, pointing to the raw, purplish bruise already forming.

Dean leans down and kisses it, putting an arm around Sam’s shoulders at the same time. “There’s a kiss to make it all better,” he says, repeating what his mother said when he was Sammy’s age and a bruised knee seemed awfully important.

Sam sniffles, sure that the day can’t get any worse until Dean says they have to find Uncle Bobby and put hydrogen peroxide on the scrapes.

The stinging stops after a few minutes. The cuts heal, the bruises fade. Eventually, once Sam gets a little older and smarter and his legs get longer, he figures out that Dean was letting him win all those years. He watches the ground so he won’t get tripped up, and he trains so that if he does stumble he can recover. When he gets hurt, he doesn’t balk at cleaning it out, or even sewing it up. But it’s a long time before he stops believing that if Dean kisses it, it’ll make it all better.

_II_

_March 14, 1998_

Dean can’t figure out what to do. He’s taking care of his brother the best way he knows how, but Sam’s fever is spiking at levels that can’t be healthy for a teenager. It’s been a few hours since Sam first announced that he felt funny, and since then he’s been throwing up almost nonstop. He’s leaning over the sink now, with nothing left in his system, heaving clear fluid and gripping his stomach. Dean isn’t showing it, offering words of encouragement and cracking jokes about the look on Sam’s face, but he is absolutely fucking terrified.

Sam, for his part, isn’t thinking too clearly. He’s dizzy and lightheaded, and keeps seeing flecks of light and fireworks in front of his eyes. His whole body aches and he feels like the next thing to come up will be an internal organ.

He heard his brother on the phone an hour ago, asking John what the hell they were supposed to do. They don’t have the money to take Sam to a hospital, and really can’t afford a paper trail this close to Kansas. He knows it’s selfish of him, but part of him is just a little glad that Dean is so scared. Dean cares enough to get that edge of panic in his voice.

Of course, even when Dean is acting nonchalant, Sam can read between the lines. He knows Dean well enough by this point that he’s not fooled by the jokes, the way Dean acts like it’s no big deal.

Finally, Sam slumps back onto the floor. He’s not throwing up anymore, not gagging on his own tongue, but he’s completely worn out. He rests his head against the cabinet under the sink, closing his eyes, relieved by the blackness of his eyelids.

“You done feeding the alligators in the sewer?” Dean asks, just as reassured as Sam.

Sam tries to say yes, but the words are too difficult, on the tip of his tongue but not there, and he just nods.

“Let’s get you into bed then,” Dean says, extending his hand, but when Sam tries to take it he realizes he’s too weak to stand. He falls back down, and this time his cheek hits the cold tile of the bathroom floor and he lets it rest there.

“Aw, jeez,” Dean mutters. “Don’t ever say I never did anything for you, Sammy.” He scoops Sam into his arms, with more tenderness than either of them expected, and carries him into the bedroom. Sam is delirious by now, and having trouble getting out of his jeans. Dean pushes his hands aside and unbuttons them himself, unzips them, pulls them down Sam’s scrawny legs and bundles the kid into bed.

He’s about to go and call John again, but at the door Sam’s voice stops him. “Dean?”

“Yeah, Sammy?”

“Kiss it to make it all better?”

Dean crosses the room. Sam must be pretty far-gone, he decides, remembering that from when they were kids. He plants a kiss on his brother’s forehead, then wipes his mouth dramatically with the back of his hand.

“Ugh, Sam cooties,” he says, making a face. “You get to sleep, okay?”

Sam doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s out cold before Dean can close the door.

In the morning he’s embarrassed, unable to believe that he acted like such a dork. By unspoken agreement, he and Dean ignore everything that happened that night. He brushes his teeth over and over, trying to get the taste out of his mouth, trying to scrub the memory from his brain. But it’s almost a week before he washes his forehead.

_III_

_January 5, 2008_

The stakeout isn’t going well, Sam decides, as if it’s taken him this much time to reach a conclusion. They’ve been watching the house for almost four hours, and nothing has happened. The sun is sinking quickly, and the last rays of purple are the only illumination on the rural road. It’s windy, the air seems to be getting colder with every passing minute, and Sam wishes for the thousandth time that Dean had agreed to wait in the Impala. He flips open his cell phone—conspicuously—to check the time again, and Dean sends him a look. It’s not a particularly sympathetic or encouraging look, but Sam decides to try his luck anyway.

“Dean?” he asks in that hopeful, can-I-ask-you-something voice that usually gets him shot down before he can even finish his brother’s name.

Dean’s not paying attention though, his own arms crossed over his chest as he pretends not to notice the cold. Unlike Sam, he’s refusing to shiver, to admit vulnerability.

“Yeah, Sammy?” he asks, not even looking in his brother’s direction.

“We’ve been out here for hours. I think if she was in there, we would have heard something by now. Seen some lights go on, or anything. But there’s nothing. The house is empty.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Dean maintains, scared to admit that he might have made a mistake, all the more so because these are four hours he’ll never get back.

“I think we do, Dean. I think we should call it a night.”

“Why, you tired?” Dean’s voice is scornful, like somehow making Sam feel worthless is going to make him give in.

“Yeah, and it’s friggin’ cold,” Sam shoots back, color rising on the back of his neck at the mocking tone.

“Aww, poor baby,” Dean drawls, unfolding his arms to sidle up next to Sam. “You need me to warm you up?” His lips jut into a pout, and he closes his eyes and moans.

Sam’s heart skips a beat, the way it always does when Dean treats him like that, but he pushes Dean instead, frustrated when he hasn’t put enough force behind it for Dean to budge an inch.

“Shut up, jerk,” he says, the annoyance coming through in his voice. “I was serious.”

“Really?” Dean asks, opening his eyes and staring into Sam’s, dark and intense without any sign of teasing. “Because so was I.”

And before Sam can process, before he can blink, before he can flinch or back away Dean’s leaning into him, cupping one hand around the back of Sam’s neck, fingers stimulating his scalp. Their lips meet, and Dean’s tongue presses insistently into Sam’s mouth, exploring it, taking possession of it.

Sam doesn’t react, just stands there, not moving, not even breathing, while his heart is pounding yes and his head is flashing no, and after a moment Dean pulls away. Their eyes meet again, and they can both see the fear they feel reflected back at them.

“Sam…” Dean begins. His voice is raw, and he shakes his head as if he can somehow erase the memory of what he’s done. Sam notices that Dean’s hands are shaking. “Sammy, I…God, I…I’m sorry.” Dean’s eyes are filling with tears that he tries to blink back. “I thought you wanted….Oh, God.” A tear escapes, courses down his cheek.

Sam’s frozen to the exact spot where Dean kissed him, certain that any minute now something’s going to explode in colors and music and maybe it will be the end of the world but he won’t care. He can taste his brother, his lips and tongue and the back of his head tingling with the sense memory.

“I’ll go,” Dean says unsteadily, taking another horrified step backward. He loses his footing and stumbles, but his eyes don’t leave Sam’s face. He digs around in his pocket, pulls out his keys. “You can take the car, I’ll just—”

Sam’s head clears and he realizes what Dean thinks, what Dean’s about to do. “Dean,” he breathes, and in one long step they’re face to face again, and this time it’s Sam who leans in. The kiss starts off hesitant, but in a moment they both relax, and the next thing he knows he’s sucking on Dean’s lower lip, and his hand is slipping down to Dean’s ass while his brother grips him tighter than he’s felt in years. The night is still cold, and they’re going to have to come to terms with this later, but for the moment everything is warm and safe and so _right._

He always knew that Dean’s kisses could make it all better.


End file.
